Year Six
by Lythande1972
Summary: Finally finished: After the events of OOTP, a despondent Harry offers himself to Voldemort, to try and get his loved ones out of harms' way...And Hermione risks everything to bring him back. Chap. 2 has been edited, Chapter three is all new! Pls rvw!
1. Default Chapter

Harry was different this year. After Sirius' death, he had retreated into himself, pulling away from Ron, Hermione, and Ginny; pulling away from everything.

Not that the change was obvious. He still went to classes; in fact, he studied his lessons more carefully than he ever had, especially the Defense Against the Dark Arts. He had surprised himself by learning a dozen new protective spells and charms over the summer from books alone, and twice that number since September.

He was also working tirelessly with the remaining members of the D.A., even though now there was no reason to meet secretly. He poured his energy into each lesson, and was a good and careful teacher. The younger students especially were beginning to hold him in a sort of awe that he wasn't really used to.

Harry was also making an effort to keep his feelings hidden from everyone around him, especially his closest friends. Ron, Hermione and Ginny had enough on their minds; they didn't need to worry about him. So for months now, he had made a concerted effort to seem relaxed and well- adjusted. Sober but not morose. When anyone asked him about losing Sirius, or how he felt about the prophecy, he would look them straight in the eye and say, with a careful mix of brightness and gravity, "I'm doing OK." That usually stopped the questions, even from Hermione. Sure, he'd been through some difficult times in the past year, but so had all of them – look at Ron and Ginny, almost losing their father! So they should be able to believe that, even if he wasn't quite the same Harry, he was fine.

Even if, of course, he wasn't fine at all.

So he and Ron and Hermione still joked around and hung out, the way Gryffindors always had. They sat up late nights, talking about life and other silly things; razzed each other about their homework; avoided the topic of Voldemort and the upcoming war; tried to act normal. Harry smiled and laughed and tried to pay attention and put up a good front. But inside, it was as though he was watching them all from some vantage point outside of himself. He felt already hundreds of miles away from them, and he didn't see any way back.

He was a marked man, doomed to kill or be killed. He didn't belong there, with these lovely, innocent, normal friends of his; he was sure of that now. Everyone he loved was a target as long as he was alive – and he had made it fifty times worse with his own pigheadedness, and gotten Hermione and Ron badly hurt, and Sirius killed.

He couldn't risk having that happen again. Dammit, he couldn't bear it! He would not ever risk any of their lives again. Because it had been for nothing.

Sirius died for NOTHING.

That last thought came over and over, at least once a week, unbidden. It rose up when he was least expecting it and he would have to duck out of sight and be alone until his fists unclenched; until his heart stopped racing; until his eyes were no longer full of tears.

Sometimes he thought the whole mess of the last few years of his life was just going to drive him mad.

But he had come to a decision. If he was going to have to face Voldemort, then he was going to do it alone. Better to die by himself, and just get it over with. And the funny thing was that Harry wasn't even sure he cared anymore whether he did survive. He just desperately wanted the whole thing to end. Harry was so tired of running from Voldemort; worrying about Voldemort; talking about Voldemort; waiting for Voldemort. . . He found himself wishing more and more these days for Voldemort to just show up and kill him, or try, so that at least the suspense and the helplessness would be over.

He knew that he probably owed something to the members of Dumbledore's Army, and to the Weasleys; to Professor McGonagall, Mrs. Figg, and everyone else who loved him and had helped him – he knew he ought to stick around and help them to really rid the world of Voldemort and his followers. But he couldn't help feeling like he was part of the problem – his existence seemed to drive Voldemort to greater madness.

No, better to move forward now. All he felt that he could hope for at this point was to prepare the rest of those who wished to fight the Death Eaters as well as he could, and then hopefully to take Voldemort down with him, or at least hurt him badly in the attempt.

It didn't occur to Harry that he might be missed.

Lost in this world of his own, then, Harry had taken lately to walking the school grounds alone. At first he went out during the day, when it was normal for students to be out and about. But then one night, and then another, he found himself, fully dressed, sneaking out to wander the grounds...for what? he asked himself. 

Looking for Voldemort. Hoping for Voldemort.

He had to admit it even to himself. This strange, suicidal desire was growing inside of him, and he didn't have any inclination to stop it.

It was in early December that Harry decided that he had had it with waiting. The D.A. students were progressing nicely, and would do fine under another teacher. Harry hoped that Hermione would take on their teaching; she had enough experience, and he knew she could easily learn anything from books that she hadn't yet faced herself. And Ron was there to help. Harry also hadn't missed the very subtle electricity that was growing between the two of them. He felt odd when he saw it. If they had each other, he thought to himself, it would probably be easier on them. If he didn't make it back.

That night, when he was alone in the dormitory, Harry took out a quill and parchment, and penned a letter unlike any he'd ever written in his life.

Dear Tom,

I'm tired of waiting. You can probably kill me, so why don't you come try. Let's sort this prophecy out already. I'll be waiting for you tomorrow on the west road, past the woods.

Believe it or not, I have no tricks in mind.

Harry P.

He addressed this letter to Peter Pettigrew, closed the letter and sealed it, and headed to the owlery.

When he returned to the Gryffindor tower, he found Ron, Hermione, and Ginny waiting for him in the common room. Hermione's gaze seemed especially piercing tonight, but she said nothing. They sat and studied together, and laughed at little nothings, until it was time for bed. Harry almost forgot about his letter. 

The next day was unseasonably bright and sunny, with great large bright white clouds piling up in a glorious blue sky. Harry awoke feeling strangely excited and almost light-hearted, and found himself feeling more alert and alive in class than he had been in months.

At lunch he, Ron, Hermione and Ginny sat in the sun, enjoying the weather and each other's company enormously. Harry felt as if a great weight had been lifted off of his chest, and was almost jumping in his seat as he teased and laughed with his friends. Everyone had a great time. Ron and Ginny seemed delighted to see him loosening up and becoming a little more of his old self. Only Hermione's brow was a little wrinkled, and she kept looking at him thoughtfully out of the corner of her eye.

The clear weather didn't last. That afternoon storm clouds were gathering in the western sky, blocking out the setting sun. Harry sat alone in the courtyard as the wind picked up, blowing leaves in skittering circles along the flagstones. The air was grey and moist and he could smell the coming rain.

He wrapped his cloak around himself and thought about his letter, feeling bittersweet and very calm. He wondered idly if he would be back here tomorrow, or ever.

"Harry?"

He turned and saw Hermione standing behind him.

He felt oddly grateful that she had sought him out, even as he knew he wouldn't confide in her. She would never understand his reasoning, and he didn't want to be talked out of his path now.

But he realized unexpectedly that he didn't really want her to leave, either.

She sat down beside him, not looking at him. He saw her lips purse and her eyes flash as she struggled not to burst out with questions, or accusations.

He felt a rush of kindness towards her, and surprised then both by answering her question before she finally could choose to speak it out loud.

"I'm fine, thanks."

She looked at him with exasperation, and finally spoke. "My big fat ARSE, Harry. You are not fine, and you're not telling me what is up with you. Will you please talk to me? I've been worried sick about you, and this is really the last straw."

This was not quite what Harry had expected. Confused, he was quiet for a moment, and then could only stutter. "What? The last...what?"

"You're not yourself at all this week, and especially today. You haven't been the same since last year, but I understand that. You went through hell. . ." She frowned concernedly as he winced at her words and the memories they evoked. He was disappointed that that they could still hurt, with how good he'd been feeling all day. But never mind, he thought. Nothing could really hurt him now.

She lowered her voice. "But these past two weeks, you've been worse than I've ever seen you. You're alone all the time. You're not eating. All you do is sleep and study and try to pretend to us that you're fine. But don't think I can't tell, Mister Big Shot Harry Potter! We've been friends for five years and I know when you're hurting! And I don't think you're doing anything about it! And you won't let us help!" Her voice raised in concern and frustration. "And then today you're suddenly Mister Happy Sunshine, and I don't understand it, and I'm scared of what you're planning, and I don't know what to do. I'm desperately worried about you, you idiot," she continued, and he was surprised to see her eyes were glistening with tears. "You need to tell me what is going on with you."

She stopped and looked away to angrily wipe her eyes. Then, with a breath, she turned, and glared at him.

"Well?"

Harry could only sit and stare back at her in stunned silence.

How on earth had she figured out what was going on? What – what could he say or do now?

She was so near the truth. He felt a dangerous and powerful urge to spill it all out to her. All of it! He had been quiet for so long. . . He desperately wanted to talk about Sirius; about Voldemort; about his parents, and the prophecy...and his decision. He wanted to place his head on her shoulder and let out the tears that he'd held in for months and years and his whole life. To tell her that he would miss her. That – for the first time this occurred to him – that he was sorry that he had to go.

He felt as though his world was tilting; the blood was rushing in his ears. His heart was racing. And still she stared mercilessly at him, waiting for him to speak.

He had been planning to lie to her. He was ready to lie to her. He needed to lie to her.

Instead he said simply, "You're right."

She blinked and leaned back a little, waiting.

He swallowed, thinking of how to say what he had to say. "Hermione...of course you're right. I'm...I'm not myself, and I have been wallowing in my sadness for awhile, I guess."

She burst in. "That's not what I said!"

He raised a hand. "No, I know, but it's true. I haven't been trying to make things better. I haven't wanted to. And I'm sorry, maybe I should've been talking to you. I forgot how well you know me." He looked down at his hands. He felt abruptly ashamed at how much he had shut her out.

"But," he continued slowly, raising his eyes to hers, "...but...I'm starting to think that there's hope. You're right, I'm different today. I think...I may have found the key to making this whole thing easier. To maybe taking Voldemort..." He paused, thinking whether he should risk telling her even this much.

"To maybe taking care of Voldemort before he can kill anyone else."

Hermione gasped, her eyes wide. "You're going to take him on yourself. Alone. I won't let you. We won't let you."

Harry sighed, having known that she would say this. And yet it felt so very good to have told her part of the truth.

He hoped she would forgive him someday for the lies he was now going to tell her.

"No. Not alone. You're right." He looked her straight in the eyes and put all of his heart into looking sincere, praying that she would believe him. "Of course, it occurred to me to head out by myself – you know me, and my 'savior complex'!" The last words stuck somewhere in the back of his throat - he had meant to make a joke, but the memories were too raw.

He stopped for a moment to cough and look away, hoping she wouldn't notice his tears.

When he could speak again, he continued. "But no, that didn't work. So what I've decided, what I figured out today, is that we all have to work together and get really prepared. I'm going to stick around and make the D.A. the best fighting force we have, and then someday, when Voldemort comes back, when the war comes, we'll be ready. I'm going to be ready. And together, I know we will beat him. I have to believe that we're going to beat him."

He was still looking away, and now when the tears returned he couldn't hide them. Hoarsely he spoke the truest words he'd ever spoken.

"Because if we can't beat him...if I don't beat him...then what point has there ever been to my life. . .?"

That night, they all sat in the common room, working on homework and occasionally chatting or poking at each other. Harry made an effort to play and smile along with them. After all, it might be his last chance. . .That thought caused him more of a twinge than he'd hoped it would.

Harry felt at once nervous and determined. Hermione had shaken his resolve more than he wanted to admit. She had reminded him that there were people who cared about him. Uninvited pangs of guilt were fluttering in his stomach tonight, at the thought of the pain that his possible death would cause them.

And yet he still felt there was no other way. No matter what he'd said this afternoon, he simply couldn't bear to wait. There wasn't any point in waiting anyway! One way or another, he and Voldemort would have to duel. And Voldemort would be out there soon, waiting for him. So tonight it would be. Whatever happened was going to happen in just a few hours. . .it would be over by morning...

And then, with that thought, Harry felt another feeling that he hadn't expected, flaring up deep within him. Fear.

Around midnight, the study session broke up. Harry and Ron climbed up to their dormitory where Seamus and Neville were already asleep.

As they were putting on their pajamas, Ron leaned over and abruptly poked Harry in the head. "Hey," he whispered.

Harry did not want to deal with anybody else worrying about him right now. "What?" he whispered back hotly, not having to feign annoyance.

Ron's face fell. "Oh...Um..."

Instantly, Harry regretted snapping. "I'm sorry, Ron, I'm just tired." He came over and sat on Ron's bed, trying to look friendly. "What d'you want?"

Ron relaxed a little and flopped down on the bed. "I just...it's..." Again he looked uncomfortable.

"Spit it out, Ron. I have to go to bed."

Ron had a look as if he'd swallowed castor oil. He stared determinedly past Harry, concentrating at a spot on the ceiling as if it were a very, very important spot. Finally he mumbled, "Um...look, I just want you to know that...you can...you know, talk...to me. If you ever need anything, I mean. 'Coz...you know...you've been through a lot...you know. And...you know...you've seemed a little stressed, lately. So I just thought...you know... you might want...to talk...um..." He rambled on, seemingly unsure of when to stop this uncharacteristically emotional outburst.

Touched, Harry took pity on Ron, and interrupted him. "Thanks," he said, meaning it. "I know I can count on you. Maybe tomorrow."

"All right then," said Ron, seeming satisfied.

The time had come.

Harry had been lying awake for a long time; the room was totally quiet. For some reason his heart was pounding again. He was definitely not as calm as he had planned to be, as he snuck out of bed and quietly dressed in his jeans and sneakers; once he had to stop to wipe his eyes roughly on the back of his hand. He grabbed his robe as an afterthought, to ward off the drizzle that had begun to spot the windows. And he was very, very careful to take his wand. He slipped out of the castle easily, using an unlocked door that he knew from the Marauder's Map. He whispered an obstruction charm to confuse anyone who might be keeping watch to keep a student from doing what he was doing. He had left the invisibility cloak behind, not wanting to risk it falling into Voldemort's hands.

Once away from the castle, he strolled almost casually along the western road, his hands in his pockets. He barely noticed the drizzle on his shoulders. Now that he had left the castle, now that there was no turning back, he felt more relaxed; he actually had the ludicrous urge to whistle along with his steps. His anger and grief and fear had all faded, leaving nothing in their place but a determination to get where he was going. He would not think about what might happen after that.

He had half expected himself to be practicing Defensive spells for the whole journey, and yet now he wasn't even sure how much he wanted to use them. He still wasn't sure if it might not just be better if he let Voldemort just kill him. Wasn't it possible that killing Harry would appease him, and end this mad cycle?

He had been through too much, and was too tired, to see the flaws in this reasoning.

An hour of walking brought Harry through the woods to the location he'd picked for his duel. An open stretch of road, with clear views for a distance on all sides. A good site for a fair fight. Not that he expected one – he guessed, after all, he probably wasn't that naïve. But he could hope, and offer.

He arrived in the middle of the great expanse of fields and rural road far out from the protection of the woods. He was alone.

He hadn't expected this. Turning around in a circle, he scanned the skies and the surrounding fields. No one. He frowned, frustrated. He wanted this to begin already, so it could end. He stood suddenly still and opened his arms wide. "Voldemort!" he screamed into the night. It began to rain harder. "Voldemort! If you want me, come and get me now! I'm waiting!"

There was no answer. Rain pelted his face and ran into his collar. And then he heard the soft "pop" of an apparating wizard - but the sound was too near to him - it was right in his ear -

The pain in his chest was instant and completely engulfed him. He choked on blood and bile that shot up in his throat as he staggered, his eyes open wide in stunned surprise and confusion. Oh, he had forgotten... in all of his careful calculations of self-sacrifice, he had forgotten how badly he could hurt...

Slowly, stupidly, Harry looked down at his chest and saw the end of a long dagger that had cut cleanly through him from back to front. As he watched, in slow motion, the dagger disappeared as its owner drew it out of him. Harry screamed! in pain and the world whirled around him, but he somehow kept his feet, and turned to face the last person he had expected to see.

Lucius Malfoy.

Malfoy was grinning a terrible grin and raised his sword again, but Harry, without even thinking, whispered "Expelliarmus!" His voice was tiny and gasping, but the spell was still strong enough to tug hard on the sword and throw Malfoy badly off balance. Malfoy stumbled backwards, frowning.

Harry blinked, his brain seeming to move in slow motion. Blood was soaking his shirt, mixing with the rain. Vaguely he could see that they were not alone. Peter Pettigrew stood behind Malfoy to his left. Another Death Eater that Harry didn't recognize flanked him on his right. Voldemort was nowhere to be seen.

Harry let out a howl of rage and anguish. Voldemort had sent henchmen to fight Harry, instead of coming himself. And now Harry was mortally wounded, and it would be for nothing. He would have no chance to end the cycle or make the prophecy come to pass.

And then, on the heels of his despair, he felt another emotion rising up inside of him. Fury. And he knew then that if he was going to die tonight, he was going to take them all out with him.

Not for nothing had he been studying defensive spells all year. They wouldn't expect him to know some of these spells, spells usually reserved only for seventh years and adult witches and wizards. Harry tried to take a deep breath and gagged as his wounded lung refused to open; but he couldn't wait to try and breathe, he just had to dive. So he did.

He dove to the ground, avoiding a curse from Malfoy's wand, and screamed, "Incito Dolora!" Perhaps it was the sheer force of Harry's will, but Malfoy, who should have been able to duck a spell from a wounded teenage boy, took the spell full in the face, and it ripped a deep, bloody wound across from eyebrow to jaw. Malfoy gave an awful gurgling cry and staggered back, covering his ruined eye with his hand. Pettigrew and the other Death eater rushed in towards Harry, crying out spells. But even wounded, Harry's adrenaline was racing and he dodged them easily. The curses shot harmlessly by him, lighting up the rain.

Harry was having trouble seeing. He dragged his sopping arm across his forehead to try and clear his vision, but it wasn't the rain that was in his eyes.

He couldn't stop now. He wanted to take these monstrous men to hell with him, and flush their leader out to face him in person. He spun around and cried, "Crucio!" but his hand was shaking and his aim went wide of Pettigrew. He continued to scream curses without stopping. "Impedimenta! Incito Dolora! Stupefy!" and then, without a pause, pointing right at the man he didn't know, he shrieked, "Avada Kedavra!"

He felt the terrible electric force of this spell coursing through him, even as he said it. In slow motion, feeling as though he was channeling a lightning bolt, Harry watched as the spell rushed through his fingers and up and out of the end of his wand, and out into the rain.

It hit his target in the neck. He crumpled to the ground.

Harry had no time to think about what he had done. He saw Pettigrew pointing his wand and threw himself again to the ground to duck the spell. Rolling back onto his feet, he screamed "Expelliarmus!" and was stunned when Peter's wand actually flew from his hand and into the darkness. "Petrificus Totalus!" he cried next, almost laughing at the ridiculous spell, but it worked. Peter fell to the ground, completely rigid.

Harry turned back to Malfoy and immediately ducked as a curse flew by his shoulder; but he was slowing down, and it glanced off of his cheek. It left a stripe in his skin that burned angrily. Harry realized he was running out of time. He whipped around, wand at the ready, prepared to curse Malfoy to high heaven –

But with another distinct "pop", Malfoy was gone. Harry whirled around, looking for other opponents, but all he saw was Pettigrew's body, and the other Death Eater, both also Disapparating with two more little bursts of sound.

Harry was left behind, standing in the middle of the road, clutching his wand in the driving rain.

He stood, gasping for breath, not believing at first that they had really fled, and that Voldemort had never even come. Damn him, Harry thought crazily, why won't he let one of us die already! Come back and finish the goddamned job!

He stood there, looking furiously up into the sky, scanning the length of it, his eyes darting back and forth. When it seemed that he was truly alone, at least for the moment, Harry's breathing slowed. Slowly, he lowered his head and returned to himself – and staggered with sudden fatigue and pain.

He was alone on the West road, in an icy rain, soaked to the skin and gravely wounded. He had forgotten about that first terrible strike; but adrenaline was fading fast, and the angry rip in his chest was very real. Harry raised his good arm to touch the throbbing and instantly regretted it as pain and sickness rose up and overwhelmed him. He looked down and saw thin spirals of blood in the puddles by his feet. His head spun and he nearly fell, suddenly panting for breath.

This was not going to be an easy walk home.

Harry turned towards Hogwarts and began the surprisingly agonizing task of putting one foot in front of the other. Only moments ago, he had been fighting desperately but brilliantly, a wizard to be reckoned with. Now he stood alone, miles from help, energy spent, his life draining out of him and leaving faint streaks on the wet road.

He stumbled as he walked, weaving dizzily. The rain was icy cold and coming down in sheets, running in rivulets down his face and weighing down his robes. He couldn't see anything in the dark and wasn't sure if he was even on the road anymore. His head was spinning and swimming. The wound in his chest sent miasma coursing through him with every pounding beat of his heart. He was shaking uncontrollably now, teeth chattering with cold and strain.

He felt dull and stupid. Slowly it occurred to him that he had a source of light. He stopped struggling forward, almost falling over with the effort of just standing still. With a great effort, he lifted his wand and tried to speak, but his tongue stubbornly refused to move. He had to focus hard before he could make himself croak out, "L-Lumos." The wind took his weak words away before they were even fully formed – but the wand lit up.

Harry blinked and tried to look forward. He was mostly lighting up the rain at the wand's tip, but if he squinted through the water he thought he could see the road stretching out in front of him. He tried to raise his wand for better light, and cried out and gagged as the motion brought pain ripping hot through his chest and arm. His fingers flung themselves open of their own accord and his wand flew out of his grasp into the darkness, winking out.

Harry stood, gasping, beyond any ability to cope or think clearly. Forget the wand, he told himself desperately. I have to get back. I have to get to Hogwarts.

He wasn't sure if he was still standing or if he had already fallen. He took a step, and then another, and then fell to his knees in the mud. The rainwater coursed ceaselessly down his face.

I have to stand back up. I have to stand up. I don't want to die here. He tried to take a deep breath to steady himself, but there was no place inside of him for the air to go, and he choked instead. He felt unconsciousness creep a step closer. Frustrated and beginning to feel frantic, he tried to heave himself up and instead pitched forward onto one shoulder, his cheek scraping in mud and gravel. He pushed against the ground with battered hands. He could no longer tell which way was up. He sank into the mud.

He was lying on his face, not feeling the rain or the wind anymore. I'm sorry, Hermione... he thought vaguely. . .I don't think I'm going to make it back. . .

The sound of the storm was somehow increasing, rushing fiercely like a freight train inside of his head, blocking out everything else. It roared so loudly that he thought he couldn't bear it – and then it ended, and Harry blacked out with it.

HARRY!

Hermione jerked up in bed, hair flying everywhere, sending Crookshanks flying off the bed with an angry yowl. Harry was hurt! He was right there, in front of her, in the mud, calling for help. He was dying...

Her heart was pounding in her throat, her breath coming in gasps. Wildly she looked around for Harry – but of course he wasn't there. Because she wasn't where she'd thought she was, either. She wasn't out in the night, in some muddy field, in the pouring rain; she was in the Girls' dormitory, as always, safe and sound. Everyone around her was breathing evenly behind their bedcurtains; if anyone had heard her cry out, they had probably just rolled over and gone back to sleep. Harry, too, was certainly safe in bed in the other tower, for pete's sake. Getting good sleep while she woke herself up with stupid nightmares for no reason. Idiot, she thought to herself. It didn't matter to her whether she meant herself or Harry.

The wind howled and the rain dashed itself in torrents against the windows, but the tower room was cozy and warm. No one would be outside in such weather. Hermione sighed and settled back against her pillow. It was only a dream. I guess I'll just try to go back to-

"Hermione!" someone hissed into her ear. Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin for the second time in as many minutes and whirled to look behind her, where Ginny now stood.

"Hermione," she whispered again, her face pale and her eyes red, "did you see it, too?"

Hermione gaped at her, and it took her a minute to reply. No, she thought, this can't be...because if Ginny saw it too, then...he must be...

That idiot. He lied to me.

I'm an idiot. I believed him!

Finally all she managed was her own hoarse whisper: "We've...we've got to find him!"

Ginny nodded fervently. No more words were necessary. Swiftly and soundlessly they dressed in their warmest clothes, clenching their wands in white-knuckled fists. They crept down the stairs as quickly as they dared. "I don't think he's too far away," whispered Ginny.

Although she had no possible shred of reason to agree, Hermione's gut was telling her the same thing. "No, me either." And then, "We can find him. We'll find him." It was more of a prayer than a conversation.

She stopped and looked at Ginny. "Shall we wake Ron?"

"We won't have to," said Ginny, pointing. For the first time since they'd woken up she smiled. Ron stood in the common room, similarly dressed for the weather, wand at the ready. He had a terrible, anxious, determined look on his face, but it faded a little when he saw them. For her part, Hermione's heart leapt in gladness at the sight of him. Three felt so much better than two. They could do this. They had to.

"You, too, huh?" Ron whispered when they reached him. "Where d'ya think he is? What could have happened to him?"

Hermione's heart sank. She had hoped that Ron would know more, would know what Harry had kept from her... Then she thought back to her dream, and to the sense she had of where it was.

"West," she said determinedly. "On the west road. I'm sure of it. Past the woods."

Ginny nodded in agreement. "When did he leave, Ron? And why? Is it ...You- know-who?"

"He never tells me anything," shrugged Ron, looking frustrated. "Anyway, he was there when we went to bed. Totally normal – or as normal as he is these days. When I woke up, I thought he was really there in front of me – I thought he was playing a trick on me. But he was gone. Wand, robes, shoes all gone. I think..." He darted his eyes uncomfortably between them and lowering his voice. "I think you're right, though – I think he went to fight V— V—Voldem- m-mort."

Ginny went visibly paler and Hermione felt a sob and nausea both come up in her chest at the same time. Why? She screamed inside. Why does this have to be happening? Why didn't you wake us up, Harry? Why didn't you listen to me?

But all she said was, "Keep your wands ready. We'll find him."

There was no possibility of flying on brooms in such heavy winds, so they headed out on foot into the driving icy storm. The rain cut into them like knives, scraping their skin raw and painful in the first few seconds. Hermione's best weather-protection charms barely made any difference as the gale tried viciously to force them back to helpless safety in the castle.

They headed out together, then, to the west; three small dark huddled figures each following a tiny glowing beacon of light.

They struggled forward for what felt like an eternity, leaning hard into the downpour. They were all soaked through but no one spoke of it, or spoke at all. Each squinted desperately along the road, looking for any sign of Harry.

The road wound through rolling hills and sometimes under cover of trees, but the force of the storm never let up. The trees moaned in the wind and Ginny shivered even as she firmly told herself not to. Next to her, Ron's jaw was set with a firmness and anger that Ginny had never seen before.

On and on they trudged in an unchanging world. Hermione was convinced that the rain would never end; this forsaken road would never lead anywhere; the dawn would never come...

But the stormy hellish darkness was beginning to lighten, just a tiny bit. And then Ginny cried, "Look!"

Up ahead, far away and tiny, something or someone lay on the road.

They had thought that they had been pushing forwards with all possible haste, but now all three broke into a dead run. The storm in turn seemed to rise up against them, doubly strong, until Hermione was sure that her exposed skin was cut to ribbons.

It took forever to reach the small mound of robes and hair and skin in the middle of the road. At first they weren't sure it was him – but that was his hair. Those were his sneakers. Hermione's vision, already rain- soaked, blurred with worry and grief. She felt sudden warmth on her face. It took her a moment to realize that it was teardrops, mixing with the rain.

Harry lay unmoving, face-down in the mud before them in the lightening dawn. His hands were splayed out to his sides and his robes crumpled on top of him. His wand was nowhere in sight.

They knelt down beside him, suddenly terrified to touch him. Ron's mouth was pulled down into a look of such sadness that Hermione couldn't look at him. Instead she called out over the rain, "Harry! Harry!"

He showed no sign of hearing them. Hermione felt her pulse in her ears, and her hands were shaking. Oh, he can't be dead, please don't let him be dead...

Ginny was the first to be brave and gently reach out to touch Harry's shoulder. "Harry?" she asked, tentatively. With a tug, she turned him onto his side, and then they pushed him onto his back, his arm dragging lifelessly across his chest. Their was a dark stain in the mud underneath where his chest had been, but it was impossible in the half-dawn to tell what it was. "Harry, it's us. Harry, are you awake?"

They peered eagerly into his face for any sign of life. His glasses were gone. His eyes were closed, his hair plastered to his face and streaked with earth. His skin was cut and bruised and a dull grey-white under the slapping raindrops. He did not move. He didn't even seem to be breathing, but it was hard to tell in the pounding storm.

"All right," yelled Hermione over the roaring wind, "all right, we have to get him back. He's going to be fine, he isn't dead," he isn't dead! He can't be dead! "...so we have to get him back. Everybody, when I say heave, let's lift him up. You take his legs, Ron, and we'll each take an arm. OK? OK – one, two, heave!"

They heaved and picked him up, splashing water everywhere. Did he gasp in pain as they moved him? She wasn't sure, but it didn't matter. What mattered was that they had to get him home.

And so they headed back east with their ungainly load, his head cradled awkwardly against Ginny's arm, the wind now thankfully behind them. Perhaps the storm was even diminishing a little. Step after step after step after step...

The rising light, and exhaustion, played tricks with Hermione's eyes. She was sure she saw Hogwarts ahead in the mist, but then it was only a tree...but the dead weight in their arms was real. She found herself looking down at Harry's limp head as it was cradled in Ginny's grasp, praying that he would look back at her, that he would be in there. His eyelids never fluttered.

She watched as Ginny awkwardly raised a hand to brush her soaked hair out of her face, her fingers bright red with new blood. They briefly left streaks on her face before rainwater washed it all down with everything else. Hermione couldn't let herself think about what that meant, about how hurt Harry might be, about how he could be dying. Or dead. They just had to get him back.

If it had felt like it took them hours to reach Harry, the struggle to return to Hogwarts seemed interminable. Hermione felt half-drunk with cold and fatigue. Ginny's breathing was raspy next to her, and Ron was panting with his efforts. Still they stumbled along, step after step after step, in silence. Somewhere along the road Ron roused himself and spoke. "It's not raining so hard. I think it's finally letting up. Thank God!" he added fervently.

Indeed, the rain and wind had been slowing, and the sky had lightened to a pale, sickly blue-grey. Looking up Hermione could suddenly see Hogwarts ahead, for real this time, as the mist cleared – and none other than Dumbledore and McGonagall themselves racing down the road to meet them.

They bore down on the crew of rescuers in a flurry of robes and questions and quick, efficient motions. Almost before the trio realized what was happening, Dumbledore had effortlessly magicked Harry out of their arms and begun striding with great speed back towards the school. "My dears, my dears," wheezed McGonagall frantically as they raced to keep up with him. "What in the world? What happened? Where was he? Are you alright?"

None of them could find the breath to answer as they tried to keep up with Dumbledore. Hermione felt sick and terrified. She tried not to remember the deathly stillness of Harry's closed eyes and totally pale face against Ginny's arm; his limp weight against their arms; how he still hadn't moved or made any sounds even as Dumbledore lifted him away from them. She felt hot tears mixing again with the last drops of rain on her face.

By the time they had reached the infirmary, Harry was not in sight. Hermione sputtered in protest – "Is he all right? Is he all right?" but McGonagall gently held her back, and guided her to sit down on a bed. She motioned to Ron and Ginny to sit as well.

"I don't know, Hermione," she said gently. "But we can't help him now. It's up to Madame Pomfrey and Professor Dumbledore. Now we have to take care of YOU. You're soaked to the bone," she said pointedly, suddenly sounding more like her old self. "All three of you, and clearly exhausted, and it's no wonder, gallivanting about in that storm for god only knows how many hours! Now get those wet things off and lie yourselves down right here, so we can keep an eye on you and warm you back up! Goodness me!" And she stood up with a disapproving frown and bustled off to get warm clothes for them. Hermione would almost have thought that McGonagall was mad at them for breaking school rules and leaving their beds in the middle of the night, ...if it hadn't been for the very tender glances she'd been sneakily casting them. And the glint of tears in her eyes.

Hermione sat on the edge of her bed and wished she could see into the other room. Was Harry going to live? What was wrong with him? What had happened to him?

She felt tears well up in her eyes again and then felt them fall freely to her lap. She was too bone-tired even to wipe her face. She sat, unmoving, despairing, wanting just to sleep, wanting to wake up in her bed and find out that none of this had happened. . .

She felt a warm arm slip around her shoulders. It was Ron, who had come to sit by her. And then Ginny was there, on the other side, wrapping her arms around both of them. "We did it, Hermione," she whispered into Hermione's ear. "We did it. I'm sure he's going to make it. We did it."

Hermione found she could not speak. She nodded dumbly, and then suddenly she was sobbing into Ginny's shoulder. The three of them sat together and held each other for a long time, dripping rainwater onto the old wood floor.

It was hours later when Hermione woke. She blinked slowly, confused, and then remembered where she was. It seemed to be about midday, but there was no sign of yesterday's brilliant sunshine. Instead, the sky outside was grey and steely, and it filled the infirmary with a thin and depressing light.

Ginny lay, still sleeping, in the bed next to her, her damp red hair grandly fanned out around her head. Hermione sat up, and looked around. Ron was not anywhere in sight.

Feeling shaky, Hermione pulled her legs over to the side of the bed, swallowing back nausea. She stood slowly and looked around, and then she saw the curtained bed on the far side of the room.

If he's there, she thought, then he's not dead. And yet she was terrified to go look and see, because if he wasn't there, then maybe he hadn't made it. And she didn't think she could survive that.

So she stood there, unsteady, not wanting to know, and not being able to stand not knowing, rocking from heels to toes in apprehension. She might have stood there forever, frozen in her exhaustion and fear; but the floorboards creaked under her feet. Somebody behind the curtain heard that noise, and stood, and walked over to lean out –

It was Ron. Of course it wouldn't be Harry, but she was still unreasonably disappointed. He smiled when he saw her, and something in his shoulders seemed to relax a little.

"Hello Hermione," he whispered. "You OK?"

"Yes," she replied, uncertainly. "You?"

"I'm fine," he reassured her, but his face was creased with worry and fatigue. He looked somehow older than she remembered him.

For the second time in two days she found herself with a question that she couldn't ask. She stood there, struggling, and finally asked, "Is he...Is he..." She couldn't finish the sentence.

She desperately wanted Ron to laugh, to smile, to say, Oh of course he's fine. We've just been sitting here chatting! You know our Harry, he's taken on a dragon and Voldemort himself, he's always fine!

But he met her eyes with the same helpless worry that she knew must be reflected in her own. He took a long time to answer her.

"He's here, but he's...he's not doing too well, Hermione. Dumbledore's pretty worried, I think. But I guess you'd better come around and take a look for yourself..."

With a sudden inhalation, and a panicky feeling, Hermione couldn't wait any longer. Shaking, she ran past Ron, behind the curtain, to where Harry lay.

She had forgotten how thin he had gotten. He seemed to be all cheekbones and eyelashes and wild black hair. They had dried him off and changed his clothes, and his hand and face were bandaged in places where there had been bloody cuts. But he lay completely unmoving, with barely a rise and fall to show the rhythm of his breath. His skin had not changed from the deadly pallor of the night before. And his eyes were closed as though they would never open again.

"Harry? Harry?" she found herself asking, not expecting an answer. What had he done? Would he ever come back to them?

She sat next to the bed in a chair, and took his unbandaged hand in hers. It was icy cold, and completely limp. She had never felt anything like it.

She turned to Ron. "Have they told you anything?"

He nodded, and sat himself down at the end of the bed. "I talked to Pomfrey before she left. She says that the big problem is – that –" he gestured at the top edge of a bandage that circled Harry's chest, and disappeared beneath the blankets. "He was stabbed right through, I guess. From front to back. And the sword or whatever, the knife, it was cursed somehow. With something, no one even knows what. But it's knocked him right out. She says Harry's not waking up like he should."

His eyebrows crowded together, and his voice shook. "They were trying all sorts of spells for ages, but I think they've given up for now. She's not sure he will wake up, Hermione. Dumbledore isn't, either."

Hermione was tired of tears; they didn't help anything. But they would not stay away and once again coursed unbidden down her cheeks. She wiped her hand roughly across her face and snuffled, and then placed her fingers on Harry's forehead, smoothing his bangs. His skin felt clammy and unhealthy.

She sat there for a long time. She felt totally empty.


	2. Chapter 2

The next three weeks were the longest that Hermione could remember.

Perhaps she went to class…? She wasn't paying any attention. She vaguely made efforts to complete her homework assignments, remembering nothing of them when they were finished... Each day, as soon as she could, she raced straight to Harry's bedside in the infirmary. Often Ron would have beaten her there. Ginny always came in as soon as she could, breathing hard from running through the courtyard.

The three of them would sit and chat, almost as if things were normal.

Almost.

Next to them, Harry lay unmoving, barely breathing, and pale as talcum dust. Each day he seemed to grow thinner and weaker in front of them. His skin had taken on an eerie translucent sheen. The circles under his eyes had deepened to a bruised blue-black.

Outside the windows, the grey December days were short and listless.

……

In the evenings, when Madame Pomfret eventually insisted that they leave, Hermione went straight to the library to research countercurses. Every night. She refused to lose hope, gritting her teeth a little harder with each book she put aside – but there was nothing. _Nothing!_ Neither she nor Dumbledore nor anyone else had been able to find any record of a similar curse. It was as though it had never been used, never been documented, as if it had come straight from the depths of hell.

……

Inside of himself, Harry drifted…

He realized he was conscious…or…sort of…he had a funny, foggy feeling, as though he were half-dreaming and half dead…

…was he dead?

If he could have moved, he would have frowned, as he tried to force his plodding, heavy thoughts to make sense of where he was.

But he didn't seem to be able to move. Still feeling drugged and dizzy, he tried to concentrate.

After some time, he realized that he could feel his body…well, sort of feel it. He seemed to have fingers and toes, and could vaguely feel his head. None of it would respond when he tried to do anything with it.

But the strangest feeling of all was what was supposed to be in between his toes and his head, wasn't. He couldn't feel anything at all. It just wasn't there.

He felt emptiness swirling out of his chest, as though the middle of him had been sucked out by a whirlpool.

He thought he heard Hermione's voice – and then he felt someone touch his forehead. 'Mione, he thought vaguely…Is that you? He wished he could see her.

He felt her take his hand and rest her head against it. Her hair tickled his skin. He thought she was speaking, but it was as though his ears were stuffed with cloth. Hermione, Hermione! he thought, feeling a little more awake. I want to open my eyes – I want to see her –

He concentrated with all of his might on opening his eyes – and instead was rewarded with a sudden rush of pain washing up over him – a piercing noise, a suffocating sensation -- and then grey fog, and nothing.

……

Three days before the Christmas holiday, Hermione sat alone in the infirmary, watching over Harry. She curled her fingers around his hand again, as she did everyday, willing him to squeeze back. He didn't.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head against their hands and sighed, her head swimming. She felt as if a vast black hole had opened under Hogwarts and she was helpless to keep them all from falling in…

It's killing him, Hermione thought.

Maybe he just doesn't want to come back.

Hermione heard the door open. She turned to see Dumbledore walk casually into the room. Hermione looked up at him expectantly but he ignored her completely and instead strolled slowly towards the open west window, looking thoughtful.

Hermione watched curiously as he stood in front of the window. He seemed to think for a moment. Then he raised one hand in front of him. Clearly and quietly he said:

"_Accio wand."_

Hermione sat, confused. A wizard was never without their wand….Had Dumbledore thrown his wand out the window?

She wouldn't be surprised if he did something that odd… no, she saw it now, in his other hand. But then what was he doing?

Dumbledore stood there, unmoving, for several minutes. If he knew she was watching (and Hermione was sure that he did) he made no sign. Instead he waited, very still, with one hand outreached, until…

…a wand flew gracefully in through the window, and landed on his outstretched palm.

Harry's wand.

Hermione gasped, stunned. She felt a stab of grief deep inside of her. No witch or wizard should be able to call another's wand. Yet there it was. Ownerless. It looked small and wrong on Dumbledore's old, massive palm.

Dumbledore closed his fingers around the wand, an expression of thoughtfulness on his face. He turned to look at Hermione.

"Miss Granger, I believe you can help us with a small task."

Then he handed her the wand, and then sat down as if to wait.

Completely puzzled, Hermione held Harry's wand awkwardly in her left hand, staring at Dumbledore. She felt depressed and a little sick. It was simply wrong to hold another wizard's wand. It was as if Harry were dead.

She wanted desperately to ask Dumbledore what he meant, but her tongue felt like lead in her mouth. "Uh…." she mumbled, feeling like an idiot…but she was prevented from asking anything by another entrance. Minerva McGonagall burst dramatically into the infirmary, chalk dust still on the front of her skirt.

"Albus?" she asked, rushing over to them and sounding more than a little irritated. "You don't possibly think…a stand-in? Drawing it out? What about the risks?"

"Calm yourself, Minerva," Dumbledore replied. "We shall explain the risks to our dear Hermione. But I think you underestimate her. I do think the risks are quite manageable. She is, after all," with a wink at Hermione "the brightest witch of her generation."

How does he know about that comment? wondered Hermione. A sudden, sad memory of Sirius flashed across her mind.

But wait – what? Me? Risks? What is he talking about? "Professor?" she began again, feeling more than a little panicky -- but Professor McGonagall continued the conversation as if Hermione were not there at all.

"Let us not get our hopes up, Albus. Nor the childrens'! It has been a very long time since this countercurse was tried – and it has _never_ been done against an Unforgiveable curse! _Never_! I think it is madness. I really do!"

Dumbledore smiled more broadly, and leaned back in his chair. "Well, it may certainly be madness," Dumbledore replied, his eyes twinkling again at Hermione. He really seemed to be enjoying this conversation that was making no sense to her. "But many a mad project has proved fruitful, in my experience…"

McGonagall didn't say anything in response to this. Instead she turned to look at Hermione, her lips pursed, seeming puzzled.

Hermione looked back and forth between the two of them, waiting. She was too anxious and confused to even ask a question. She was still holding two wands.

After a long pause, Professor McGonagall turned back to the headmaster. "Albus, do you really think it's right to use her? It'll be hard work. And it _is_ dangerous, you can't deny that."

Hermione felt her heart pounding in her chest. She finally made some words come out of her mouth: "I'll ..ahem…I'll do _anything_ for Harry," she said, louder than she meant to. "I will. I really will. Just tell me what to do." She felt herself gripping both wands too tightly.

Dumbledore smiled kindly at her. "I know you will. And I happen to think you will do very well. But Professor McGonagall is right – it will be dangerous, and difficult. You should know the risks."

He settled back in his chair, and seemed to grow more serious. After a pause, he spoke more quietly than before, gazing intently at Hermione.

"I think…and Professor McGonagall agrees" he looked over his glasses at her, as if to confirm this – "that Harry is suffering from the effects of an Unforgivable Curse." He paused, and his eyes did not waver from Hermione's. "The killing curse."

Hermione felt as if she had been kicked in the chest.

"_What?_" she gasped. "_What? What?_" She looked frantically from one to the other, struggling to calm down enough to make a sentence. "How… how is that possible? He would be dead! There's no countercurse once you've been hit!...Is he…but he _isn't _dead…?

"What do we do? What on earth can we do?"

"Shhh, my dear," murmured Dumbledore, touching her arm lightly. "He is most definitely not dead. No, not yet." He turned to Professor McGonagall. "Minerva, would you like to explain?"

Professor McGonagall looked as if the last thing she wanted to do was explain anything, casting a quick furious glance at Dumbledore. But she leaned forward and said, "Miss Granger… There's a very old magic…so old, it took us weeks to find any mention of it. But it seems the killing curse can be…um…_transferred_."

Hermione just kept staring, trying to make sense of what she was hearing.

"It doesn't have to be cast by a wand," continued Professor McGonagall. "It…it can be placed in an object. In this case, a knife, most likely."

She gestured towards Harry, lying still, behind them. "And when that object then touches a person…when it touched Harry…well, it's just as lethal, but it kills more slowly, that's all."

"More slowly," said Dumbledore quietly, "and …it can be interrupted."

McGonagall whipped around to face him, her face reddening. "We don't _know_ that, Albus –" She turned back to Hermione. She almost seemed to be pleading. "Please, Hermione, this has never been done before. I'm truly not convinced we can do anything. You must understand that Harry is very likely still going to die. I'm sorry, but I won't lie to you."

She closed her mouth abruptly. Dumbledore had not moved. Professor McGonagall seemed to deflate a little. She sat back in her chair. Her hands rose to fiddle with her hair. She sighed. Her eyes glistened.

Hermione felt she'd been sitting there for an eternity. She looked from McGonagall's exhausted face, to Dumbledore's, pensive and unreadable, and then down to her own two hands. The two wands looked old and worn out in the grey light. Her mind was racing, but she couldn't bring herself to speak.

"I'm sorry," McGonagall repeated in a very low voice.

And then, as she turned to look at Dumbledore, something seemed to change in Professor McGonagall's face. Expressions passed by too quickly for Hermione to read…disgust? Sadness? …Humor?

After a long silence, Professor McGonagall sighed. Dropping her gaze to her lap, she tugged at her skirt to straighten it, and then turned back to Hermione.

"Ah, well, …if professor Dumbledore thinks he can…interrupt…this curse, well …" She sighed again, but the spark had returned to her face. "I suppose you'd better explain your theory to us, Albus."

Dumbledore smiled, looking satisfied.

……

Harry returned to semi-consciousness again. It was not as easy this time. He felt himself struggling up as if through layers of heavy blankets. He had no strength to fight them.

His thoughts moved slower now. Dully, he noticed that he couldn't feel his feet as well as before. It was as though the empty feeling from the middle of his body was spreading.

What happens when it fills my whole body? he wondered.

I guess I'm dying.

Dulled and sickened …he didn't have the strength to care.

Vaguely he heard more voices near him, but they seemed so very far away and small…_sleep_, said a sickly sweet voice in his mind. Unable to resist, Harry fell back into the fog.

……

_Three theories, three simple spells,_ thought Hermione determinedly to herself. She drew her cloak tighter around her against the wind and forced her legs to move faster. Her boots made slapping noises on the flagstones.

It was another grey day, but the sun had peeped out from the clouds at noon and raised everyone's spirits just a little. _Just like the last day he was here,_ she thought...

…her thoughts moved, against her will, back to their conversation in the courtyard, weeks ago…

…How could I have believed him? _Damn us both!_

Her chest was tight with grief.

But the sunshine was almost gone now, and Hermione had pages and pages to read before midnight tonight. Her hands were clutching her books so tightly that she would find later that she had left sweat streaks on the book covers.

_Three theories, three simple spells. _Together they will work.

They _have_ to…

Ducking into the castle, she raced up the stairs and entered the Griffyndor dormitory.

"Why such a hurry, dearie?" complained the Fat Lady after her, but Hermione didn't hear her, and wouldn't have stopped if she had.

She flew up the stairs and into her empty dormitory room, ripping off her cloak, and flung herself down on the bed. Grabbing the pile of books, she began rifling through them, looking for the pages that Dumbledore had marked for her.

_Three theories, three spells. _She nearly bashed her elbow against a bedpost in her haste. She heard Dumbledore's voice in her head, as he had passed each spellbook to her:

"_First_." he had said, his brows furrowed together in concentration. "We will first draw this curse out of Harry before it kills him. You will find the spell that we will use here" - he pointed - "page four hundred and thirty-two of _Whigley's Compendium of Countercurses_.

"_Second. _ Once it has been drawn out, it can be destroyed. That is a simple spell. Here, _End Any Curse in Three Easy Steps,_ page six hundred and eighty-six.

"_Third," _Dumbledore had looked at Hermione over his glasses with an expression she could not read, "and _most_ delicate…As Professor McGonagall knows, this sort of curse will only be drawn out if it is called by the cursed person himself. This, I must admit, was …a difficult problem."

McGonagall had rolled her eyes at that. "Difficult?" she snorted. "_Difficult_? Is that what we call it? Let no one accuse you of overstating the case, Albus."

"However," continued Dumbledore smoothly, as if she hadn't interrupted, "I have reason to believe that with a particularly _clever_ spell, we may be able to do so…" He smiled, clearly proud of himself, and said slowly,"…using _Harry's_ wand." He turned to look at Hermione meaningfully, and then slowly handed her the last book he was holding. It was open to a page titled _Anima Transverseum: The movement of personal characteristics._

"Someone young, and gifted in magic, needs to stand in for Harry for this undertaking to succeed." And with that, Dumbledore would say nothing more, and had sent her back to her dormitory to study.

Hermione sat up on her bed for a moment, and wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans.

That person is me. _I_ need to do this.

Dumbledore had made it sound so simple, but what if anything went wrong? This had never been tried before. What if it made things worse? What if she couldn't do it? What if she killed Harry?

_It will be fine_, she thought fiercely. It will work. It has to. Dumbledore can do _anything._

And she forced her shaking hands to keep turning pages.


	3. Chapter 3

Midnight.

Hermione, Dumbledore, and McGonagall stood around Harry's bed, Hermione by Harry's chest, and the professors on the other side, one each near Harry's head and feet. The only light came from two spelled candles that McGonagall had carefully lit and placed on the table next to Harry's head.

"For a little extra luck and power," she whispered to Hermione, and winked.

Hermione tried to smile bravely back, but she managed only a grimace. She shivered in the cold room. Her insides felt frozen and dead, and her wand was shaking in her hand. Harry's wand seemed to burn her from the pocket where she'd tucked it.

She looked down at Harry. They had pulled the covers off of his chest and opened his shirt. He looked cold and vulnerable in the candlelight. His skin was white as frosted window glass, and he seemed almost as transparent. His head was turned to the side on his pillow, the flesh sunken against his cheekbone. As he had for almost a month now, he lay totally still. She had never seen him move in all that time.

The bandages were gone; instead, Hermione saw for the first time a new, small scar on his chest. It was shaped like a lightning bolt. The sight of it made Hermione feel sick.

She reached down to touch his hand, as she had done so many times. It felt simply dead. Her heart ached at this, and then, with an effort, she pushed her worries as far down inside herself as she could…

She squeezed his hand briefly in her own, leaned down and whispered to him, "Don't you worry, Mister Big Shot Harry Potter. We're going to get this thing out of you, do you hear me?"

……

They started by pointing all three wands together over the middle of Harry's bed, and then lowering them down, until the tips just barely touched over that scar. They held the wands there, hovering, for a moment, while Dumbledore murmured something long and intricate under his breath. Hermione felt a rush of excitement as the tips of the wands began to glow, giving off a gentle pink light. The three of them would have more power together than any of them alone. They could do this!

After a few moments, they all began to chant together the spell that would draw the curse out. "_Avada Leviosa_," Hermione intoned carefully. "_Avada Leviosa… Avada Leviosa…._"

The pink light immediately dimmed and buzzed, almost seeming to flicker out – then it relit itself, and glowed steadily. They continued to chant the spell, while Hermione watched anxiously for any sign of change in Harry. He lay unmoving, the pink light warming the blue, dead tones in his skin.

"_Avada Leviosa…" _Hermione could feel the power building up in their wands, like an electric charge that had no place to go. And still they chanted. Hermione's arm began to wobble with the strain…her wand felt like a living thing, pulling and tugging at her. She sent a worried glance in Dumbledore's direction as she struggled to control it, but his eyes were closed as he continued to chant.

She dragged her eyes back to Harry, willing something to happen. _Avada Leviosa…Avada Leviosa…Come on, come on, _she thought_, get OUT of there – _

The buzzing sound coming from the center of their spell was louder now. Over the noise she heard Dumbledore call to her, "Now, Miss Granger. Use Harry's wand."

Hermione felt her chest clench inside of her, and her vision wobbled. But she steeled herself, and with her right hand still struggling to hold tight, she pried her left hand off of her own wand, and snuck it down to her pocket. When her fingers closed on Harry's wand she felt a sting, like an electric shock, but she made herself grab it anyway. Slowly she raised it and began moving it towards the pink glow at the center of Harry's body.

Her hand shaking, feeling nauseous, she pushed forward until the tip of Harry's wand met the tips of the three wands already there –

She heard Professor McGonagall call out, "_Anima Transverseum"_ -

BOOM went a small shock through the room. The light of the spell they were weaving flashed blue, then settled down, more orange than before – and Harry's body twitched with the shock, and Hermione nearly yelled with joy as -- his eyes opened -- !

She almost dropped her wands. _Harry! Come back to us, Harry! _

The buzzing was all around her, it was in her head, it seemed to be shaking the room. Forcing herself to turn her head, she looked at McGonagall – was it time? The professor nodded, her face looking tense and drawn in the candlelight.

Hermione took a deep breath and then, as she had been instructed, she began to move her own wand away from the spell. It was still bucking and pulling at her, throwing her off balance, and she had to move so slowly...It was a relief to drop the wand on the floor and concentrate on pouring all of her power through Harry's wand, which felt much calmer.

_I am Harry, _she thought, _I am Harry, now get the fuck out of there, you fucking curse – _

She didn't feel like anybody but herself, but that didn't matter, right? Something seemed to be working –

"_Anima Transverseum…_" spoke McGonagall a second time, louder…Hermione knew it needed to be said three times, and idly wondered how long it would be before the spell was complete…but she couldn't think about that for long as together, just as she had read, the three of them very, very slowly began to drop the points of their three wands. Slowly…slowly…until they just touched the scar on Harry's chest –

Hermione instantly felt another shock and Harry's body twitched, and then twitched again –

the chanting was louder now -

the wands hummed of their own accord –

Harry's eyes were wide open, his body suddenly tensed. He began to tremble and shake –

And then something else began to happen...A tiny thread of sickly yellow-green fog began to ooze out of the wound at the tips of the wands. It made Hermione feel ill to look at it, to see it leaching out of Harry's chest...

And then, _"Anima Transverseum!"_ cried McGongall for the third time, her voice ringing through the room. And then together she and Dumbledore chanted again, _"Avada Leviosa! Anima Transverseum! Avada Lev-"_

But Hermione couldn't hear them anymore - She felt a wave of power and dizziness wash over her and then suddenly –

she was seeing through someone else's eyes –

She saw a woman, a room, it was all blurry –

another man –

She felt fear, heard screams –

_and suddenly felt a blinding pain in her forehead –_

She screamed in pain! Bent over, tried not to pass out –

vaguely she heard McGonagall yelling out for her not to drop the wand, felt hands on her upper arms holding her up –

then as abruptly as it had arrived, the pain passed, faded, leaving just a dull ache in her head.

She opened her eyes to see Harry, still lying in the bed, his body trembling, his head flung back –

Then without warning another vision – she saw a fat man and a thin woman and felt illness and fear –

then more images forced themselves upon her, faster and faster – a school, a snake, a tiny room, children -

Dimly she felt herself still holding the wand, gripping it with all her might. But the images kept coming, crowding her head, making her dizzy – a boat, and then someone she recognized – Hagrid! She was seeing Hagrid –

And it was then that she knew that these were Harry's memories.

_Harry –_

She saw herself! young and heartless and so long ago, and almost laughed – Ron, Draco, Dumbledore, Snape, others flew by her as if on a movie screen –

She felt herself gasping for breath, trying to straddle two worlds, casting a spell in one, riding a roller coaster of images in the other… -

She saw Professor Quirrel, whom she had almost forgotten after so long – she felt a rush of fear and power and the pain just above her eyes throbbed, then dimmed…the memories went dark, and then brightened again…

She heard as Dumbledore and Mcgonagall continued to chant…"_Anima tranverseum…Avada leviosa…Avada leviosa…Avada leviosa!_"

Hermione saw Ginny Weasley, and herself – and the basilisk! She felt Harry's fear and his anger as he fought, felt pain in her arm and in her head…then she felt the terrible weakness and emptiness and knew before she even saw one that she, Harry/Hermione, was remembering the dementors…she saw Lupin, and then Sirius…the dark mark in the sky…Cedric…Cho…and then as the pain in her head grew ever stronger, her vision blurry with pain and fatigue, she vaguely saw - no, felt –

_Voldemort._ It was he, it was Voldemort, he was there – in her head –

Hermione knew it was only a memory, and yet she felt fear and panic filling her, blocking out everything else…she felt a terrible wrench and disorientation -- the planet was spinning in the wrong direction -- felt herself _losing_ herself -

She could still hear Dumbledore and McGonagall, chanting away from somewhere far outside herself…she felt her grip weaken on the wand. She was so tired, so tired…the hands were still on her arms, sending her strength, keeping her on her feet…

"_Avada Leviosa…Avada Leviosa…" _

She opened her eyes and gasped. Harry's shaking body was arched, his chest raised, his head flung nearly upside down. His eyes were still open. The curse, that sickly greenish awful ooze, was flowing out of him from everywhere! -- the wound in his chest, his eyes, his ears, nose and mouth… The fog was congealing, if that was the word, at the end of her wand tip...they were doing it! It was leaving Harry, they were fooling it into leaving Harry, he was going to be OK…

Her head was still swirling with images…she could no longer keep them straight…she kept her eyes open with great effort. Dumbledore, still chanting, was watching her carefully. The curse was still hanging at the end of her wand. Why hadn't it dispersed? Wasn't it suppose to disperse, once they drew it out of Harry?

And then, slowly, Hermione began to realize that something was wrong.

The curse wasn't dispersing. It wasn't weakening! It was thickening, oozing and curling around the tip of the wand like a snake, growing darker and more menacing. Hermione stared in growing fear as she begged Dumbledore in her head,_ do something, do something…_

and then the worlds inside and outside of her head seemed to merge –

She watched, unable to move, as the curse gathered itself and shot up the wand, to her hand, and then _into her chest._

It was Malfoy's dagger piercing her in two. Hermione felt herself scream as the curse seemed to swallow up her insides – she dropped the wand, she couldn't think, she couldn't breathe –

She barely felt Dumbledore and McGonagall moving next to her – she sagged in their grip – her eyes rolled back in her head, her body felt like it was turning inside out –

She was Harry dying, fighting in the mud –

She was Hermione, dying in the infirmary –

From a long, long way away, she heard McGonagall whisper in her ear, "hold on, Hermione!" and then she heard Dumbledore's voice as she had never heard it before. Deep and sonorous, it seemed to echo inside of her bones as he intoned, just once:

"_Arresto Avada!_"

And just like that, the curse was gone.

The pain left her like water draining from a basin, swirling through her and out. She felt like it left nothing behind but the barest shell of her own body. She couldn't manage even to stand back on her feet; instead she collapsed further against the wall, and then into somebody's arms.

She saw one more vision – Harry stood in front of her. He was pulling away from her – looking at her -- they were separating – Harry/Hermione became two people, and both were exhausted –

She managed to open her eyes for just a moment. The last thing she saw was the real Harry, lying in the infirmary bed. His body had relaxed, and he was taking a breath…

She remembered nothing more.

……

Harry felt warm… protected. Somebody was there with him, holding him, keeping him safe. It felt like…was it…

"…Hermione…?"

he tried to ask….

But something…he… was rusty and stiff with disuse and weak, and no sound came out. All he heard was a sort of a faint hiss…was that him?

Where was he?

……

He tried to think, feeling as though a dream was dissipating from around him. His head felt filled with water, or mud…the world spun around him and changed…

Slowly he became aware of his body. The warmth faded and in its place he felt very, very cold…

he was…

he was…

in a bed?

He was alone…

Hermione had been there with him, hadn't she?

……

He thought about opening his eyes, but nothing happened. He tried again and then suddenly his eyes _were_ open – and the brightness of the room made him immediately shut them. He felt a choking sensation as his body tried to cough. It seemed to take an immense effort. He felt as if he hadn't taken a breath in a lifetime. His lungs were filled with gravel. Everything hurt.

From a distance, he heard sounds outside of himself. Chairs being pushed back. Somebody gasped. He heard footsteps running over from behind his head.

"Is he awake?"

"Harry?"

Somebody came next to him. A warm hand landed on his arm. And then Ron's voice came out of nowhere: "Harry! Harry, are you in there?"

Harry felt a surge of happiness. He tried to turn his head towards Ron's voice but nothing happened.

He seemed to be too weak to move?

He blinked his eyes open a second time, trying to get used to the light in the room.

He wanted to figure out where he was, but everything was a blur…He was looking up at a ceiling.

Then a wild mane of red hair came into his vision, followed by Ginny's beaming, blurred face. Harry thought he'd never seen anyone so beautiful in all his life.

"You're awake! Harry, how wonderful! Oh, I'm so glad to see you!"

Harry wanted to answer her. He tried to speak…all that came out was a sort of croak, and then he coughed again. It hurt, but he didn't care. He blinked, and tried again to move his head to see Ron. This time it did move, just a little, and there was Ron, looking happier than Harry had ever seen him.

"Harry!" breathed Ron, grinning so widely his lips seemed almost to touch his ears. "Harry! Bloody hell! Harry!"

Harry felt his lips move stiffly and creakily, and realized he must be smiling back. "Ron…" he managed to whisper.

He felt their hands envelop his with warmth and love. He thought he'd never felt so happy.

"Ron…" he whispered again. It was easier this time. "Gin…ny…" He felt warmer, felt so loved…he was drifting back to sleep...

"Herm…" he started again, but was asleep before he finished.

He didn't see their faces fall.

……

When Harry awoke again, it was night. He blinked, wondering _when_ he was, _where_ he was.. when he would find out… He felt stupidly happy just to be able to think, and grinned, feeling his stiff cheeks learning how to move again.

He sighed and slowly, slowly turned his head -- and there was Ginny, sleeping in a chair next to him. A low lamp was lit by her side. She was close enough that even without his glasses he could tell who she was, her uncombed hair hanging over half of her face. She was snoring lightly.

Harry couldn't help it – he cracked up. He managed to get out one real laugh before his rusty self began to cough instead.

Ginny started at the noise and slowly blinked her eyes open. She smiled when she saw him awake, and then moved in her chair to sit up.

"Harry," she murmured sleepily, sounding deeply content. "Welcome back." She gave a long, languorous yawn and then stretched deeply. "Aaaah – I've been sleeping in too many chairs lately!"

She leaned forward, and looked down at him. "So, how are you feeling, champ?"

Harry thought for a moment, and then croaked, "…think I'm OK…howr…you?"

Ginny beamed and squeezed his arm. "I'm just so glad to hear your voice! I'm good, we're good, Harry. Everyone's fine. We're just so amazed to have you back."

Back…Harry thought about that. Back from where? It occurred to him that he wasn't sure why he was in bed…

He pushed his mouth to make more words. "How…long…?" was all he could get out. He guessed he must have been in bed at least a week… He'd never felt so weak and sick in his life.

"Um," said Ginny, looking guarded. She looked around her as if wanting someone else to answer this particular question, but no one materialized from the floor to rescue her. "Um," she said again, and then, "well…about three weeks, Harry. Or…almost four, actually. It's January."

Harry felt stunned. Nearly a month? What could have happened to lay him out for a month? He dug in his fragmented head for any memory…and came up with nothing...

He looked up at Ginny, a puzzled and distressed expression on his face, and croaked "What…happened…?"

Ginny looked uncomfortable. "You don't remember?" she asked, her voice reducing to a squeak.

Harry shook his head the small amount he was able.

Ginny picked up Harry's limp hand and began to play with his fingers, not looking at him. Harry tried to wiggle his fingers in response but they barely moved. He felt a small stab of fear in his gut. Why was he so weak?

Finally Ginny, always the brave one in the end, seemed to decide it was time.

"Harry, you – well—we think you tried to take on V…V…Voldemort. We…we found you on the west road. In the middle of the night."

Harry saw her eyes abruptly shining. "You were in terrible shape, Harry. He nearly killed you."

Little alarm bells were ringing in Harry's ears—

he began to feel dizzy–

He remembered!—

the west road –

the rain –

the fight –

the despair –

the knife –

dying.

His heart was racing and his vision seemed to cloud over. He took a deep, wobbly breath and tried to stop the panicky, drowning feeling that was rising in his chest—

Voldemort had left him to die—

What an _idiot_ he'd been!—

From within his panic, he began to be aware that Ginny had placed her hands on his arms, and was whispering to him. "Shhh…it's OK…you're OK now, Harry…shhhh…it's over, we got you back. It's OK…"

Trembling, he wrenched himself back to listen to her, trying to slow his breathing, returning to the present. He'd broken into a sweat.

Slowly, he brought his eyes to focus on Ginny, who was looking unhappily at him. She was still holding his arms with her wonderfully warm hands. "Listen to me, Harry," she said quietly, "it's OK now. We brought you back. You're OK.

"You were a _lunatic_ to go out like that by yourself," she added, rolling her eyes at him, trying to smile, "but we brought you back."

Harry's heart was still pounding in his chest. And something didn't seem right…He felt there was something he was missing…"brought…me…back?" he asked.

Ginny smiled for real, then, looking a little shy... "Yeah," she said, "you will _not_ believe this, Harry… but we, well…we all dreamed about you, Harry. We—um—" she paused, seeming to realize how odd this was going to sound – "we saw you…dying. We knew where you were. Each of us…so we—well—we came to get you. Ron, Hermione, and me. And we found you, and we brought you back.

"Carried you."

_Carried me? _

Ginny paused, her eyes focusing somewhere else. Harry wondered what she was remembering.

In a moment, she returned to herself and continued…"But, um…well…you were …"­­--she seemed to choke a little on the words – "…_cursed_. And it took Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall and Hermione almost three weeks to find out how to lift the curse, but they did it! They did it, Harry. Hermione did it, really…." Ginny's face suddenly saddened, and she looked away from Harry again, at something he couldn't see past him in the infirmary. Harry followed her with his eyes but couldn't see where she was looking.

"Harry," Ginny turned back to him, "are you really here? Are you really awake?"

What did she mean? Harry nodded, confused.

"I mean, are you ready? I don't…I don't know if I should tell you yet…"

Harry grimaced in frustration, and would have groaned if he could. "_Tell me…" _he croaked. "Hermione?"

She's dead, he thought suddenly, and all of the light went out of his world.

With sudden strength he moved his hand to Ginny's and closed his fingers around her hand. "Hermione…" he gasped…"Is she…"

Ginny sighed and gripped his fingers back tightly. "Shh," she said, hearing what he couldn't ask. "It's OK. Hermione is OK. She's not dead, OK? She's OK. She's just…recuperating."

Harry tried to absorb that, and felt his heart pounding again in his chest. Helpless, he kept staring at Ginny, praying that she would continue. He had to know what had happened…

Ginny looked at him suspiciously, and then shrugged. "To hell with it, I've already started. Harry, you need to understand…you were _cursed_. With the _killing curse_, you understand? The real thing. I don't know how you held on for weeks and weeks and didn't just die," her eyes were wet again, "but you didn't, and Dumbledore and McGonagall found a way to lift the curse. But they needed Hermione to lift the spell, you know what a brilliant witch she is, so she helped them, and it worked, so you're OK, but Hermione…well, Dumbledore is sure that she will be OK, too, but she got attacked or something by the curse – no one will really explain it to me. But she's been in bed ever since. But she doesn't look like you did. You looked dead. For three weeks. Hermione just looks…worn out."

Ginny stopped abruptly, as if realizing how much she'd been rambling. She had an odd, drained look on her face, and leaned her head against Harry's hand, just as Hermione had. She continued to babble almost as if she were speaking to herself, as if Harry weren't in the room...

"It's just been so frightening, Harry. I'm just so glad you're OK. And I have to believe Dumbledore that Hermione will be fine, too. I'm just so tired of worrying. And sleeping in the infirmary." She closed her eyes and sighed. "I'm so glad you're OK," she repeated. "You both have given me the worst fright of my life."

And she moved her face down to Harry's, and kissed him on the forehead.

Harry felt more exhausted than he'd ever felt in his life. His world was tilting on its axis. He longed to just close his eyes and drift back to sleep, to go back to the simple feeling he'd had just minutes ago, just being grateful to be alive…

…before he'd known what they had done for him, what Hermione had risked for him…

Instead he forced himself to ask. "…Where?"

In response, Ginny gestured in front of her with her head, to the next bed just behind Harry's. "She's right here."

Harry tried to turn himself over, and couldn't, quite; but Ginny, without needing words, gently helped him roll over, until the other half of the room came into view, and he saw her.

Hermione lay in the bed next to him, just feet away. The room was barely lit in the darkness, but he could see her face turned towards him on the pillow. She was breathing, her chest rising and falling, at a rate that seemed to Harry to be terribly slow. She looked pale, and thinner than he remembered, and her eyes were sunken.

He felt a deep, terrible feeling in his gut, a hand that held too tightly and would not let go until it squeezed him dry.

Hermione.

_I_ did this to you.

_Hermione! _

Tears came to his own eyes and ran across his nose down to the bed. He felt Ginny squeeze his shoulders, but he could not feel any comfort. It was more than he could absorb. He felt his head spin, and despite himself, his eyes closed, and he drifted off to nothingness…

The last image he held in his mind was a memory he could not have: his own limp body being carried home, in the rain, in the arms of his best friends.

……

Three days later, Harry had regained enough strength to sit up, and he couldn't wait any longer.

Hermione had not moved. Ginny's words were true; she did not look as deathly grey as Harry had. But it was taking her an awfully long time to return to the world.

With Ron's help, Harry wrapped himself in a blanket, and swung his legs over the side of his bed. Just that movement sent stars spinning though his vision; but he patiently waited for them to leave him alone, and then with a deep breath he pushed himself to his feet. Leaning heavily on Ron's arm, shaky after a month of coma, he wobbled and almost fell; but he fought to stay standing and then he limped, lurched, the few feet to Hermione's bedside.

He sat in a chair next to her bed, gently took her hand and pressed it to his cheek. Unbidden, murmured words came flowing from his lips…"Hermione, I'm so sorry…you never should have had to do this…it's all my fault…"

Ron tiptoed away and left him there in privacy. Harry sat there a long time, alone with his thoughts and his grief.

When night fell Harry had to return to his own bed, but the next day he was back, and for all of his waking hours he refused to be anywhere else. Ron and Ginny joined him there, all of them keeping vigil.

And each night, Harry dreamed…of his life past, of his childhood, of Sirius…all of his stories, everything that had made him who he was…intense, wild, troubling dreams…

Yet in these dreams, his world was subtly changed. It took Harry a few days to put his finger on it, but then he realized what was different:

Hermione was …_there_.

Even when he dreamed of Little Whinging, long before they'd ever met, he felt her presence, as if she'd lived it with him…She kept popping up, in a way that he could not understand. Sometimes it was just a sense that she was holding him, keeping him safe, the way he'd felt before he'd woken up.

Somehow, she was there, inside of him.

Harry clearly grew stronger every day, to Ron and Ginny's great and visible relief. Soon he was able to walk on his own, and then he was discharged from the infirmary.

But still he returned there every day, waiting by Hermione's bedside.

And still Hermione lay unmoving, just as he had.

Until one afternoon, almost two full weeks after Harry and Hermione had changed places, he was sitting alone with her when he felt her hand move in his.

"Hermione?" he asked, anxiously…"'Mione, you in there?"

She squeezed her eyes, not opening them, but turned her face towards him, and murmured, "mmmmm…"

He felt his heart leap in joy, felt that awful, guilty hand loosen its grip on his intestines ever so slightly... "Hey," he murmured, "'Mione, come on back. Wake up. We're waiting for you." And in a sudden impulse, he reached out to move her hair out of her face…and for the first time since he'd faced Voldemort, he saw her forehead.

It was marked with a faint new scar.

In the shape of a lightening bolt.

Harry gasped and gagged. He truly thought he was going to vomit. Without consciously thinking he scrambled and scrabbled and pushed himself away from Hermione's side, falling back onto the bed behind him in his panic.

He lay there, half sprawled, chest heaving, staring unbelievingly at Hermione, and the scar he thought he'd never see duplicated. His scar.

She took it on, he thought.

She faced the killing curse for _him_ -- and it marked her forever, just as it had marked him.

So many feelings surged up in Harry that he felt he might fly apart...anger at himself for not being able to protect her, anger at Hermione for risking herself to save him when he _didn't want to be saved_! -- He had done his best to keep them out of danger, dammit! -- anger at Voldemort for once again grievously wounding someone he loved, and guilt! – a horrible guilt for all of this mess happening. How could he have once again put someone he loved in the line of fire? He'd tried so, so hard to stop the cycle, and he'd only made it worse…there had to be another answer…

He was still there, shaking, on the verge of sobs, unable to move, when Hermione opened her eyes and looked right at him.

She squeezed her eyes to focus, and then she smiled – a slow, wonderful, satisfied smile. "H…Harry…" she croaked, in what was probably a good approximation of how _he_ had sounded, two weeks prior. "Harry!"

Somehow, Harry forced his heart to return to his chest, and his body to move closer to Hermione's bed. Still struggling to keep down his guilt and nausea, he reached out and took Hermione's hand. "Hey, 'Mione," he managed, his own voice shaky and cracking. "Welcome…welcome back!"

He felt a tear hit the back of his hand.

Hermione blinked, slowly, and took a breath. Already she had more color in her cheeks. "H…Harry…you're OK!"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, I'm fine," he crooned to her. He suddenly felt relief wash over him that she was waking up, pushing aside some of the guilt, some of the anger… "I'm fine, but…" he paused, then he couldn't help it, "I didn't really want you risking your neck to save me, you idiot!" He meant it, but at the same time he smiled, to tell her he was grateful…

Because he realized that he was.

Hermione blinked again. "It…wasn't…so bad…" she murmured. "It was…very interesting…research. And I've never…been cursed…before. Very…unique…experience..."

She closed her eyes. After a few moments, when she didn't open them again, Harry realized she had fallen asleep.

He kept her hand in his for a long time, watching her.

He felt a touch on his shoulder after awhile; it was Ron and Ginny. They settled down on either side of him without a word. The three of them sat in silence, waiting for Hermione to wake up, and make their foursome whole again.


End file.
